combined into one terrifying, corporeal emotion. And it is draped over the site. The air even tastes sour! You need to come as soon as you can.”
“I—”
“I swear it’s not normal,” he cuts me off, scratchy voice turning scratchier with panic. “Even the ecologists are stumped.”
“You called in ecologists?” I shake my head, unsure as to whether I should be surprised, insulted or chuffed. No, I feel all three emotions at once. I’m surprised this isn’t an isolated incident, insulted because Detective Mosepi didn’t call me immediately, and chuffed because the ecologists can’t do our job. “Listen, we’ve come across something similar in the veld where Valentine Sikelo’s body was found. I suggest you clear out the area until we can get there and grab some samples. Also, I’ll bring Father Gabriel along.”
“Please do. I have a neighbourhood full of freaked out residents who could use an explanation for…” He pauses. “Oh, just get here, damn it.” The call ends abruptly.
Father Gabriel pops out of nowhere and gives me a look, while he rolls a blade of dead grass between his forefinger and thumb.
“May,” Howlen calls over his shoulder, pocketing the cell phone before turning to face me. “Your grandfather’s been incarcerated at O.R. Tambo International Airport.”
“He wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week. Wait. What?”
Howlen wipes a film of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Customs locked him up in an office because he refused to declare his newly acquired hand of glory, whatever that is, and he doesn’t have the right importing permits.”
“Sweet heavens, why now ?” I trek back to my car. Leave it to Christiaan Snyders to be untimely with his eccentricities. “Call Detective Mosepi and get the details of the van Rooyen house situation,” I call to Howlen. “And tell Precious she needs to refill our anxiety prescriptions today—before we both follow Gramps’ descend into madness!”
~
The most pleasant time to visit Pretoria is in September and October when the old jacaranda trees are in full bloom and the whole city turns into one large purple-coloured, fragrant sea of blossoms. The beautiful trees lining the thoroughfares—with their slender trunks, delicate leaves, and clusters of rich lilac blossoms—lend an unprecedented attractiveness to Pretoria. And pedestrians are provided with shady retreats throughout the warm, albeit usually agreeable, spring months.
The same cannot be said for Johannesburg.
I’m positive Johannesburg’s residents will disagree with my absolute loathing of South Africa’s renowned metropolis, but I’ve never noticed a single good thing about it. The streets are too narrow and the skyscrapers are too high. If shop owners didn’t hose down the sidewalks in front of their stores every morning, pedestrians would walk through urine and faeces. Winter means a blanket of smog capable of giving a person lung cancer by staring at it for too long. Navigating through traffic is another horrendous part of Jo’burg living which I don’t care for.
Most tourists don’t see these negativities because Sandton and Rosebank are far enough from the hell commonly referred to as: The City of Gold.
First impressions are important, which is possibly why the O.R. Tambo International Airport sits comfortably on the edge of Johannesburg, near the suburban Kempton Park region. Here, it’s relatively clean and the streets are in good shape. Here, you don’t get to see the crime and ugliness giving the whole country a bad name. Here, you start your Proudly South African adventure—usually heading away from the metropolis and towards Sun City, the Kruger National Park, or Jo’burg’s sister-city, Pretoria.
As I walk through the almost clinical, distinctly impersonal airport to talk some sense into my grandfather, I’m reminded of a Douglas Adams quote in one of his lesser known works: It can hardly be a coincidence that
“I—”
“I swear it’s not normal,” he cuts me off, scratchy voice turning scratchier with panic. “Even the ecologists are stumped.”
“You called in ecologists?” I shake my head, unsure as to whether I should be surprised, insulted or chuffed. No, I feel all three emotions at once. I’m surprised this isn’t an isolated incident, insulted because Detective Mosepi didn’t call me immediately, and chuffed because the ecologists can’t do our job. “Listen, we’ve come across something similar in the veld where Valentine Sikelo’s body was found. I suggest you clear out the area until we can get there and grab some samples. Also, I’ll bring Father Gabriel along.”
“Please do. I have a neighbourhood full of freaked out residents who could use an explanation for…” He pauses. “Oh, just get here, damn it.” The call ends abruptly.
Father Gabriel pops out of nowhere and gives me a look, while he rolls a blade of dead grass between his forefinger and thumb.
“May,” Howlen calls over his shoulder, pocketing the cell phone before turning to face me. “Your grandfather’s been incarcerated at O.R. Tambo International Airport.”
“He wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week. Wait. What?”
Howlen wipes a film of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Customs locked him up in an office because he refused to declare his newly acquired hand of glory, whatever that is, and he doesn’t have the right importing permits.”
“Sweet heavens, why now ?” I trek back to my car. Leave it to Christiaan Snyders to be untimely with his eccentricities. “Call Detective Mosepi and get the details of the van Rooyen house situation,” I call to Howlen. “And tell Precious she needs to refill our anxiety prescriptions today—before we both follow Gramps’ descend into madness!”
~
The most pleasant time to visit Pretoria is in September and October when the old jacaranda trees are in full bloom and the whole city turns into one large purple-coloured, fragrant sea of blossoms. The beautiful trees lining the thoroughfares—with their slender trunks, delicate leaves, and clusters of rich lilac blossoms—lend an unprecedented attractiveness to Pretoria. And pedestrians are provided with shady retreats throughout the warm, albeit usually agreeable, spring months.
The same cannot be said for Johannesburg.
I’m positive Johannesburg’s residents will disagree with my absolute loathing of South Africa’s renowned metropolis, but I’ve never noticed a single good thing about it. The streets are too narrow and the skyscrapers are too high. If shop owners didn’t hose down the sidewalks in front of their stores every morning, pedestrians would walk through urine and faeces. Winter means a blanket of smog capable of giving a person lung cancer by staring at it for too long. Navigating through traffic is another horrendous part of Jo’burg living which I don’t care for.
Most tourists don’t see these negativities because Sandton and Rosebank are far enough from the hell commonly referred to as: The City of Gold.
First impressions are important, which is possibly why the O.R. Tambo International Airport sits comfortably on the edge of Johannesburg, near the suburban Kempton Park region. Here, it’s relatively clean and the streets are in good shape. Here, you don’t get to see the crime and ugliness giving the whole country a bad name. Here, you start your Proudly South African adventure—usually heading away from the metropolis and towards Sun City, the Kruger National Park, or Jo’burg’s sister-city, Pretoria.
As I walk through the almost clinical, distinctly impersonal airport to talk some sense into my grandfather, I’m reminded of a Douglas Adams quote in one of his lesser known works: It can hardly be a coincidence that
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